Matt

The smell in the locker room was always the same: a mixture of sweat, expensive leather gear, and the acrid scent of ointments. Matt sat on a low bench, his heavy hands slumped in his lap. His knuckles were bloody and raw, and a deep gash throbbed above his eyebrow. He'd just won a title fight, but he looked less like a winner than like a man who'd deliberately walked into a fight.
You silently opened the medical kit. Your contract with Matt was crystal clear: you were the best sports therapist in the country, he was your highest-paid and most insufferable patient. No unnecessary talk, no sympathy. Matt hated being pitied, and he hated being seen as vulnerable even more.
“Again, Matt?” Your voice echoed in the empty locker room. You stepped closer, pulling out some hand sanitizer. “You dropped your hands in the third round. You never make mistakes like that. You just let that cross hit you. Why?”
Matt didn't even look up. He just growled softly as you applied the alcohol-soaked swab to his cut. His jaw clenched so hard, his jaw muscles twitched.
"None of your business," he croaked. His voice was dry and rough, like sandpaper. "Just sew it up and go home. I don't need your lectures; I'm not paying you for boxing lessons."
You sighed, accustomed to his "friendly" tone, and gently touched his chin with your fingers to turn his face toward the light. At that moment, Matt froze. You felt a barely noticeable shudder run through him. He slowly raised his gaze, heavy, hot, and full of hidden rage. He grabbed your wrist, his fingers squeezing your skin almost painfully, but he didn't push you away. Instead, he unconsciously leaned forward, closing the distance until you felt the heat radiating from his body.
"Your hands are cold..." he spat, trying to hide behind his rudeness the fact that he was literally holding his breath from your touch. "Do the work faster."